Skip to main content

Full text of "A Canadian book of months [microform] : verse and prose"

See other formats



Collection de 


Canadian Institute lor Historical Microraproductiont / Institut Canadian da microraproductions historiquas 


Technical and Bibliographic Notes / Notes technique et bibliographiques 

The Institute has attempted to obtain the best original 
copy available for filming. Features of this copy which 
may be bibliographically unique, which may alter any of 
the images in the reproduction, or which may 
significantly change the usual method of filming are 
checked below 









Coloured covers / 
Couvtfrture de couteur 

Ccvers damaged / 
Couverture endommagee 

Covers restored and/or laminated / 
Couverture restaur^ et/ou pelliculee 

Cover title missing / Le titre de couverture manque 

Coloured maps / Carles g^raphiques en couleur 

Coloured ink (i.e. other than blue or black) / 
Encre de couleur (i.e. autre que bleue ou noire) 

Coloured plates andi'or illustrations / 
Planches et/ou illustrations en couleur 

Bound with other material / 
Relie avec dautres documents 

Only edition available / 
Seule edition disponlble 

Tight binding may cause shadows or distortion 
along interior margin / La reliure serree peut 
causer de I'ombre ou de la dlstorsk>n le long de 
la marge int^rieure. 

Blank leaves added during restoratkms may appear 
within the text. Whenever possible, these have 
been omitted from filming / II se peut que certajnes 
pages blanches ajoutSes lors d'une restauration 
apparaissent dans le texte, mais, kxsque cela ian 
p<ssible, ces pages n'ont pas 6t6 film^es. 

L'Instltut a microfilm^ le mellleur examplaire qu'il lui a 
ete possi'ile de se procurer. Les details de cet exem- 
plaire qui sont peut-£tre uniques du point de vue blbll- 
ographique, qui peuvent modifier une image reproduite, 
ou qui peuvent exiger une modifications dans la m6th- 
ode normale de fllmage sont indiqu^s ci-dessous. 

I I Coloured pages / Pages de couleur 

I I Pages damaged / Pages endommag^es 

I I Pages restored and/or laminated / 
' — ' Pages restaurtes et/ou pellkailtes 

Pages discoloured, stained or foxed / 
Pages dtoil^i^s, tachet^es ou piquees 

I I Pages detached/ Pages ditachSes 

r^ Showthrough / Transparence 

r^ Quality of print varies / 

' — ' Quality inegale de I'lmpresslon 

I I Includes supplementary material / 

Comprend du materiel supplementaire 

I I Pages wholly or partially obscured by errata 
slips, tissues, etc., have been refilmed to 
ensure the best possible Image / Les pages 
totalement ou partiellement obscurcies par un 
feuillet d'errata, une pelure, etc., ont 6te filmtes 
a nouveau de fa(on a obtenir la mellleure 
Image possible. 

I I Opposing pages with varying colouration or 
' — ' discolouratlons are filmed twice to ensure the 
best possible image / Les pages s'opposant 
ayant des colorations variables ou des decol- 
orations sont filmtes deux fols afin d'obtenir la 
meilleur image possible. 


/\ddHional comments / 
Commentaiies suppldmentaires: 

This itMn is film«d at ttte reduction ratio chacked bttam/ 

Ce docwnant ttt f ilmi su taux dt rMuctton indiqu4 ciHlessoiis. 

10X 14X 1IX 






Th* copy fllmad har* hH bMn raproducad thankt 
to tha ganaroaity of: 

National Library of Canada 

(.'aiamplaira film* fut raproduit grica i la 
gtntrotit* da: 

Bibliotheque Rationale du Canada 

Tha imagaa appaaring hara ara tha baat quality 
poaaibla conaidaring tha condition and lagibillty 
of tha original copy and in liaoping with tha 
filming contract apacif icationa. 

Original copiaa in printad papar covara ara fllmad 
baginning with tha front covar and anding on 
tha laat paga with a printad or llluatratad impraa- 
aion, or tha back eowar whan appropriata. All 
othar original copiaa ara fllmad baginning on tha 
firat paga with a printad or illuatratad impraa- 
aion. and anding on tha laat paga with a printad 
or illuatratad impraaaion. 

Tha laat racordad frama on aach microficha 
ahall contain tha aymbol — ^ (maaning "CON- 
TINUED"), or tha aymbol V (maaning "END"), 
whichavar appliai. 

IMapa, plataa. chara, ate. may ba fllmad at 
diffarant raduction ratioi. Thoaa too iarga to ba 
antiraly includad in ona axpoaura ara fllmad 
baginning in tha uppar laft hand cornar. laft to 
right and top to bottom, aa many framaa aa 
raquirad. Tha following diagrams illustrata tha 

Las imagat tuivantas ont Att raproduitas avac la 
plua grand lOin, compta tanu da la condition at 
da la nattata da I'aiamplaira filmt, at an 
conformlta avac laa conditiona du contrat da 

Laa axamplairaa originaux dont la couvanura an 
papiar aat Imprimaa sent fllmas an commandant 
par la pramiar plat rt an tarminant toit par la 
darnitra paga qui compona una amprainta 
d'imprasalon ou d'illuatration, toit par la lacond 
plat, talon la eaa. Toua lat autrat axamplairaa 
originaux tont filmat an commancant par la 
pramitra paga qui comporta una amprainta 
d'impraation ou d'illuatration at an tarminant par 
la darnitra paga qui comporta una taila 

Un daa tymbolaa tuivanta tpparaitra sur la 
darnitra imaga da chaqua microficha, salon la 
caa: la tymbola -^ tignifia "A SUIVHE", la 
aymbola ▼ tignifia "FIN". 

Laa cartat, planchat, ubiaaux, ate. pauvant itra 
filmtt i daa uux da rtduction iliffarantt. 
Loraqua la documant aat trap grand pour ttra 
raproduit an un taul clicht. il aat filma i partir 
da I'angia tupiriaur gaucha. da gaucha i droita. 
at da haut an baa. an pranant la nombra 
d'imagaa nacaaaaira. Laa diagrammaa tuivantt 
illuatrant la mithoda. 











(ANSI ond ISO TEST CHART rto. 2) 




■ 3.2 


ill 1.8 




S^. 1653 East Main 5tr««t 

r^ Rochester, New York 14609 USA 

'.^a (716) *82 - 0300 - Phone 

^S (716) zas - 5989 - Tw 

A CHattttdtan Sonk 
T of mimil^B 

Vtrat anh Prnat 

SUZANNE MARNY tp':*lj<^ 







Copyrighi. C«mdK, 1908, 



The Snow .... 


Winter'! I>.>y .... 


The Crous .... 


Karly Spring 



The Butlerfly . 



Out of Doors in June 
June ..... 


Oh, Pass a bummer in those Groves 
July ■■-... 


The Petunias 


The End of Summer in the City 


- 8 


• 14 

• i.S 

■ JO 

• 21 

■ M 

■ »5 








OCTOMIi- Pioi 

Autumn 56 

October 57 


\ovember 6s 

November 63 


Billads and Venn M 

December . - . ^ 


Spring Morning 74 

The Shelter .76 

The Ephemeral ... ■ - - 76 

Tl e Upland Park 77 

Overhead 78 

Evening 78 

Summer Night 79 

Duik in the Village go 

The Leavei gl 

Summer Afternoon 83 

The Thunderstorm 83 

The Drought 84 

Hast Summers 85 

Suggestion 87 

Afternoon 88 

A Summer Siestr 89 

Looking Forward - 91 

A Garden yi 

October 93 

Meeting Out of Doors 94 

Churchjard 96 

Christmas Mtuic 96 





The Snow 

It whirls down from the housetops, 
Flies stinging through the air ; 

It flutters from low-hanging clouds, 
And blankets brown earth bare. 

It lies in piles of feather weight 

Upon the frosty ground, 
It lingers the roofs and trees, 

And mui .es outdoor sound. 

Next day it stretches splendidlv 

Beneath a glittering sun, 
Bespread with royal shades of blue 

Before the day is done. 



This is Now Year's Day! I spring up full 
of youth, yet not too fu for much of the young, 
dainty harvest is garnered in memory's store- 
house, Pr<-cious as gold the rest is, and how I 
will treasure it! No more golden liours will 
there be misspent in the question: "Whether 
am I happy or no?" 

Long lie the blue shafts of shauow on the 
snow, gleaming in the late sunrise. A keen 
delicious elixir is the air. As it rushes in, .so 
comes to me a tribe ot joyous thoughts of the 
sweet ccitrast of sojournings by the glowing 
logs and expeditions in the icy " out-of-doors." 
My mind even leaps forward to the keen hopes, 
wrapped chrysalis-like in the ennui of the win- 
ter's end, of the joyous yielding: of the frost and 
the stirring balm in April a! Then a remem- 
brance in penitential garb drops into my glorious 
humor, of an aged pilgrim long passed through 
any of the splendor of life. She has left behind 
her the most faded of life's beauties and dwells 


ashes of the once glowing embers. 

Her will I visit on this day of fresh oooor 
tunity and new leaves ^^^' 

faintly pleased afd mor l; L'^^ T"? 
must have sympathy with hfr a ,m j^^s %„ 
s e h i,^ sighs forth the pain'^Td"^ J ^ 

S ThT, 7 ''' i"^ ""^^^^^ -^--'-^ °f her 
of^L / , .'• '^' ""^^"""^ "-^ about those 
of my family whom she knows, and speaks in I 

ance. How cool and slender now are the ties 
o fnen sh.p for this poor ancient, bereft o 

repulsive To 7"^' °' '"^^"'^ ''"="'''^^- ^'-"^t 


Measure .r ^'I" "'^ '''' gHmmering of a 
sirv nf / r '''^ 'P^a"^^ °f a "ear anniver- 
sary of a death, of a birth of old. or a weddhg 


The mental atmosphere is stale and stifling; 
nothing new from the outside world circulates 
here. New events she cannot remember. A 
few old memories are brought forth, a few old 
questions asked, her aches and grievances are 
reviewed. Among the little pictures which 
break the monotony of the depressing wallpaper 
is one which shows her as a young girl, round 
of check, pretty and supple, taken in gleeful and 
active teens. Another, young still, is taken with 
two or three children. Into what an unhappy 
slumber is falling this once active and beautiful 
flesh — alone in one room — sons, daughters dead, 
grandchildren, where? These leaves of her life 
are indeed fallen and bare, and alone is the 
dying stem. Scarcely able to go out or even up 
and down stairs alone, at her window she sits 
gazing day by day on the same road, the same 
tree. The same melancholy dusk ends each 
tedious day, the same long and uneasy night 
succeeds, to break in the dawn of another day 
of old age. 

Winter's Day 

The country in bright stillness rests, 

Blue shadows strike the dazzling snow 
The naked trees shine in the sun. 

No teasing winds their branches blow. 
The hasteners toward some mellow light 

Which speaks a welcoming fireside 
Make frozen board-walks crack and ring 

In bitter cold at eventide. 



This four-o'clock beauty of a bright February 
afternoon has an enchanting stillness. The sun 
lays a veil of palest amber on the snow, which 
is cut by long cobalt shadows. All is breathless, 
radiant, quiet. The lawns lie a foot deep in 
unbroken snow, and the houses are heavily 
thatched with its soft weight. 

We set off briskly in our sleigh, breaking the 
muffled silence with our sweet bells. As we 
leave the town streets, the white acres stretch 
about us, broken here and there by short lines 
of humble houses gleaming in the horizontal 
shafts of the sun. 

In an hour we reach our destination, a red- 
brick, two-story cottage, fronted by a plantation 
of balsam trees of various ages and sizes. The 
cottage was built perhaps fifty years ago; 
French windows open out of the lower rooms 
to the surrounding verandah. Mary and Martha 
are the occupants of this house, and they are 
both blessed. Two elderly sisters with a modest 
competence, owning the red-brick cottage, to 


which appertains a„ ol<l garden. The)- do most 
of the,r own work, which is easily ma„a«d fo 

f r 'Z^T'- ?^^ ^-P ^^y whf loot 
atter their pony and trap, but no distractine- 
females of a distracting class share the esta^ 
hshment w th them It ;» *i, • estao- 

abode aZT . . "'*"■ °^" peaceful 

alKKie. And a dear old place it is. The li^ht 
aRs roma„t,caIIy through the verandah- h dec 
windows on their old-fashioned chattels And 
tl>rough these windows may be sweeUy een tt 

Ter^oldrf''"^"" '''"'= '^^''■='"'^''™-^^^^^ 
)ears old of crocus, violet, lily and daffodil In 

the summer there are armies of phlox. Glorious 
stmshme shifts about the old beech trees and i 
IS a love y, lonely snot Tl,„ 
doe<i „r,t ' "'^ summer visitor 

desert t H^Tm'" '"" ^"burb-townspeople 
desert It. But Mary and Martha are happy in 
t. Then, too, what a delicious plringe it TsThev 
ako from the quiet house and garden (S 
being devote., travellers) to goo'dness £ 
where-Hungary, Turkey, Norway. The au- del-dously descends here. T' e Lves 
■tier the grass till the boy rakes them into 

aromatic burning heaps, the grape ripens for 
h m on latticed fences, the tempered sun 

sheds a coppery glow in the beeches. 



Ma tha ghdes, and soon the tea steams seduc- 
tively and defiantly into the winter air As wc 
sip at our cheering cups vvc gaze into the ever- 
green-planted lawn. Erect and dark, the mys- 
tenous trees strike their note upon the white- 
H i. We hold our breath with delight, and 
w '"/"l/^'--^""'^ •••'P-t of the frostbound 
spot. The blue shadows have inundated the 
land, and only one amber beam lingers in the 
dark group. It is nearly six when we take our 
leave but the February afternoon is generous 
and the hght dies slowly in the paling half peari 
above us. 

It becomes intensely cold, hut there is no wind 
to bnng home the chill to us. ]!ut what makes 
he bracmg of ourselves against the cold a de- 
light, and what enhances, bv contrast, the frostv 
glow, ,s the thought that when darkness fall's 
upon the land we shall surrender ourselves to the 
lighted warmth indoors. 

The hour comes when we draw up to our own 

part.cular httle sheltering pile, standing dark 

agamst the luminous star-pricked sapphire The 

mellow window lights speed us in. 

And who does not recall some specially de- 




When the if^hts hi T '^^ '*° °' 'hree? 

here and there th- IVrl) '°"'^"^ "P 

panelled walls? The ta k- f .°" ''' """^ 
become more subduld R '"' "' ""'' ^a^ 

have dropped il c confer^"'"' '"''" 


low and dripping tni a 11 '"'"'"'"™^'' 
quietude ha,/stoL'l thrHttl "'""°''^'°'=' 
Then there ha<: h»„ l "'"^ company, 

and a settin? n th ' '"''"^ '''"^'^ "^ <=hairs 
flickering S has ! "Z"'^'""°°''' -""<= 'he 


or listener. Later th» «. , .'^"^^ °f ^Peaker 
'i^dtoarubyX ^ehavr";^ '" "^^'^'- 

embers has laid its snel ,,Z ^ ^'"'^'"^^ 
hearts and Hpe„e"orLrhi;:^^'^""^''°- 





The Crows 

Tub sky is pale and melting blue, 
The air is damp and sweet; 

I hear hoarse notes from neighboring pines- 
It is the c -ows' retreat. 

Buds glistening with hopes of green. 

And birds a-fly with straws, 
And spongy hills of coloring grass 

Apjjcar with those hoarse caws. 


Clouds ire scudding low in a snow-laden sky. 
The drills are piled high on earth. A whist- 
ling wind whirls the light fallen snow with the 
new-coming flakes into our eyes and stings our 
cheeks, filling our hearts with bitterness as we 
trudge about in one of the last unwelcome snow- 
slorms of the year. For two or three days 've 
resign ourselves to midwinter weather. Then 
a powerful sun appears, blazin; with a late 
winter energy. 

This morning I walk in the avenue of poplars. 
The air is frostless ; heaven low and limpid, and 
busy with tearful clouds. 

Hark! a discordant Caw, caw! rends the air. 
My eyes are suddenly opened to new sights. 
The brown, muddy earth is uncovered, nursing 
pools that reflect that tearful spring sky. Tiny 
fountains well up through the cracks in the side- 
walks. By midday the gutters will be filled with 
rushing streams. And the poplars? The pop- 
lars are shining green and full of sapful odors. 



At the end of the avenue I can sec the willows 
ill the ravine. Their wands have turned a bright 
brown, almost red. On the hills an<l terraces 
I ."cek and find patches of new green. 

With <lecp content T live the day and go to 
rest at night. 

Long before morning I wake— a half-for- 
gotten sound in my ears, of rumbling and m«t- 
♦"ring. Hal' dazed I lie. That surely is a peal 
nf thunder. Then the sweetest sound in many 
a day, the fall of the first spring rain, earth- 
scented, and full of perfume as any shower in 
summer. , 



Early Spring 

One time last year the earth grew green 

In early springtime sun, 
And when a cold day came, it seemed 

spring's work was but half done. 

I wandered forth upon this day. 
The hills were spread with green- 

But no sweet odors blest the air, 
Earth lacked a sunny sheen. 

Though nature now forbidding lay. 

In dull ascetic calm, 
I laid her sweet austerity 

Unto my soul as balm. 



Out of a close and crowded street-car we 
stepped, passed some dreary shops — half confec- 
tioners', half restaurants — and found ourselves 
in a promised land of fresh air and deserted 

A grey and broken sky hung low and wept 
into the lake. The lake, troubled and opaque 
with stirred sediment, threw broken wood and 
other debris upon the yellow sand. Here and 
there a great willow hung over the beach. All 
our surroundings oozed their perfume like a 
sponge dipped in scented water. The sky 
dripped its delicate spring rain, the soft wind 
puffed in our faces the odor of fresh water and 
decaying wood from the lake. The board-walk 
reeked of wet pine, and the unmistakable pun- 
gent willow scent was all-pervading. 

We leaned over the railing of the promenade 
and thought of the coming weeks which would 
bring warmer days. Then the dusty cars would 
bring hundreds of fresh air seekers to the beach 



—city children to whom the lake and sand would 
, be a wonderful playground, who would find in 
the woods beyond enchanted playtliings to be 
searched with wild delight— boys and maidens 
thinking on each other and only faintly con- 
scious of their surroimdings, and other nature 
lovers like ourselves, only not such fond lovers 
as we, who must have 'lor even in a cool and 
tearful humor. 

The raindrops fell smaller and scantier, and 
we strolled along the board-walk till we ap- 
proached the gates of a park. We entered these 
gates, which \Vere commanded by an ancient 
man seated in a little wooden building with a 
pointed roof, looking like a porch which had 
been detached from some old-time cottage. The 
ancient regarded us grimly from his shelter, 
where he sat warm and snug beside a little 
kettle singing on an oil stove. He thought us 
a little queer, no doubt, to wander forth on this 
uncertain day of early spring when we might 
be safely housed. 

We walked a little distance up the broad park 
road till we found some steps on the side of a 
green hill. These we climbed, and found our- 
selves on a green point of land where we were 



faced by an old two-storied veraiidahcd cottage. 
The blinds were drawn, and it looked as if the 
owners might be gone from home. We prowled 
about to see if there was anyone near to deny 
us the shelter of the verandah. Behind the 
house was an old apple orchard, with beds of 
ribbon grass and grape hyacinth. We saw no 
signs 'if life except through the glass of a 
humbie conservatory, where hung two cages, 
one containing two love-birds and the otlier a 

We returned to the verandah looking on the 
sward and sat down under its narrow but suf- 
ficient shelter. On the floor, as a decoration, 
sprawled a huge wooden snake, vicious and 
spirited in action. It looked like an ornament 
chosen by some retired seaman as a reminder 
of his days among the wonders of the deep. 
The roughcast house and its wooden trimmings 
were dimly white, and the small windows were 
pointed. The deserted dwelling and old garden 
had an out-of-the-\vorld, soothing eftoct, and we 
sat for a little in a dream, seeing in imagination 
the owner of the little place, a man young long 
ago. Slowly he moved about his garden. With 
the gentle quietude of age he moved among the 



old chattels that must be behind the uropped 
blinds. Peacefully he smoked his evening pipe 
on the narrow verandah. 

Then a cloud broke, and the bright blue 
dashed us with happy unrest. We awoke from 
our day-dream of old age, and left regretfully 
the prim verandah of the oU-time cottage, the 
rampant serpent, the old orchard and the purple 
grape hyacinths. 



The Butterfly 

A FLUTTERING of yellow wings 

Through sunshine blots and shadow rings; 

And violets, for remains of showers; 

A poising high against the blue 

Steeped , the springtime through and through 



Tmc sky is palest blue tliis inorniiig— pale 
with a springtime chasteness, lacking the crisp 
color given to it by the frost; witliout the blue 
intensity burnt into it by a midsummer's heat. 
These heavenly plains are Hecked perhaps thrice 
by a cobweb of cloud, and in them rides a sun 
which mercilessly searches an unprotected earth, 
unshaded here save for the growing pines and 
the ghostly shades of the lightest of thickets. 

This searching and merciless sun is breeding 
fast upon the earth, which already swarms with 
white-flowered strawberry plants, with new win- 
tergrcens, short grass, short-stemmed scentless 
violets, and lively ants. The grey twigs and 
branches, bare hut a few day.s since, bristle with 
short, thick leaves. 

This earth, which a few mnnth.s ago jiiourncd 
the passing of a lush June to a tarnisiied mid- 
summer, and which rioted again in the decadent 
glory of October, which buried her dead and 
falling leaves in a pure and icy pall— this earth 


again responds to .Sol and bears him younir 
millions. * 

The world is alive with breeding. 

The yellowish green of the light and pene- 
trable wood before me is broken here and there 
by a dark-pointed spruce; above, the thinnest of 
white clouds streaks the blue: a delicate trill- 
ing breaks the silence. The ants hasten over 
the aromatic, heated earth, losing and finding 
their way among the tiny plants. The untrav- 
clled blue, the splendid sun. the twinkling leaves, 
the myriad plants and insects, that piping sweet- 
ness, the perfumed air— is it a sacrifice to God, 
a gift to me. in idyll for a poet? Lavishly lies 
Its swcetnes., ,ierc to take or leave as we mav 



Out of Doors In June 

1 si'KNT till- morning in a lovely field 

Where, 'gainst dark pines that did long, black 

arms wield, 
Stoo<l some stray apple trees drest out in shin- 
ing green, 
VVIiosc little twinkling leaves gnarled branches 

did half screen, 
liehind the trees sprea<l forth tlie deep, deep 

blue — 
The summer firmament with light clouds stray- 
ing through. 
Some horses loosed for pasture here did sport. 
And cropped the grass like velvet green and 

rhe scent afloat the air was that of June, 
Of grass, and blossoms that we lose too soon. 
How sweet it was in that deserted place ! 
Neglected orchard of some former days. 
Where apple tree stood side by side with pine, 
.\nd pastured horse did to his comrade whine. 



TiiERK is turmoil, as ever, i„ the citv, but up- 
town, where there is foliage, whore 'trees .ind 
gardens abound, the day of perfection is here 

The ch.stnut trees have spread their fans to 
the fullest, and carry their blossoms as proudly 
as a beauty her bouquet. The maple flutters it, 
thousand leaves t,j mak. a lovely shadow, not 
oo dense, atul elm and oak have finished their 
lacy scheme. 

In a shady spot on my grass plot I lie breath- 
■ng (he wet geranium's breath. A bee. tackinc 
and humming i„ the breeze, plies between the 
shaded (lower-be,l and the honevsuckle on the 
sunny summer-house. A faint wind stirs the 
loaves of my book, and in the immense and dis- dome the scanty white thickens or disperses 
gauzily. ' 

I wander to the front of my garden and lean 
«lly over the gate. Down the little street, ob- 
jects seem to move in a leisurely golden dream. 




In a spot of sunny air the flies hang and swing 
as if banded together by an invisible cord. Be- 
yond is a vista of clear sunbeams and dappled 

At the door of an old roughcast house sits 
an old man russet with years. His face, his 
shaky legs, his knotted hands are beaten to their 
present ancient aspect by the mirth of childhood ; 
the passions of youth, tlie loves of manhood, the 
emotions, strivings and disappointmer'a of later 
years are stamped upon him. 

Here he sits, a volume all but complete. A 
few quiet years — pain perhaps, lingering illness 
perhaps — a loosening hold on life, and the book 
will b« closed. 

He slowly, stifBy rises from his chair and 
takes his shuffling promenade, under the horse 
chestnuts, past a few houses to a street comer, 
and back again. 

Lower down the street a woman leans »♦ her 
threshold, talking to a peddler of greens. Her 
children at school, her husband at work, she is 
drawn into a few moments' pause from work in 
the calming air of this June morning. 

In the distance are playing some young chil- 
dren, so far from me that I can scarcely hear 


their voices. They smn to he pliying so (|uictlv 
that they strike no loud note in the tranquil 
movement of the day. 

Ill the afternoon there will be gatherings in 
old gardens of women in flowing white or maiivc 
or yellow, with here and there, maybe, a scarlet 
para.sol. They will wan.ler in the welcome sun 
of a late June afternoon, or linger in shades of 
huge old oaks, the gentle air shifting the pale 
blots of shadow and the mild sun-s|K>ts on their 
light garments. 

June shades! Why the sweetest of all? I 
think, because the sun shines through such thin 
and tender green, which veils such brilliant turf, 
and because the air within these .shades is afloat 
with odors of juicy foliage full of May rains 
and early summer dews. 

And the June nights ! In the air, fresh as a 
bath, float the .scents of a thousand young things 
springing from the damp earth. Youth bccouici 
a god breathing divine confidence to youth. 
The stars shine softly, sphinx-like and impene- 
trable. It is a magic world evervwhere under 
these June stars. Tender things of like age are 
discovcrino; that nature is delicious, that hu- 
manity is deeply interesting: are discovering for 
* 37 

tlic first time what is bt-aiitifiil in literature and 
art; arc lifting tugetlicr ilic veil of the world's 
loveliness. To-night the heart of yonth is 
opened. The shyest thoughts parade under the 
holy cover of this night. No ambitions are too 
high, no hopes too high. Lovers are inspired: 
their love cannot die. A divine fire will burn 
in Ihcni throughout the ages. The fascinations 
of the beloved will be everlasting for them. 

Each year on June nights the wet syringas 
brush young cheeks in the darkness. 

Wander in the summer night, dear youth; 
pour out your love and your confidence ; the rich 
blossoms of coming years may never again 
touch those cheeks flushed in such lofty humor. 



Oh, Pass a Summer in those Groves 

Oh, pass a summer in tliose groves 
That spring in north countrec, 

Of bushy maple, spreading beech, 
And resinous balsam tree. 

Oh, listen to that fluting bird 

Pipe, " Hard times, Canada," 
Until he sleeps in piny nest 

Below the bright North Star. 



The Lake 

Forth I fared in the crystal morning upon 
the blue and silver sheet, beneath a sky pale with 
the promise of a sultry noontide. The little 
lake was hill-girt, and held occasional islands, 
high and rocky or low and flat, dark with ancient 
pines or shining green with young growth of 
birch and alder. 

I loitered across the waters and marked a 
small cloud that mounted the heavens like some 
white dove, the only thing that seemed to move 
in nature, a mate for my white boat. 

And then my i was changed, I had en- 

tered the shade of ring rock which formed 

the side of one of .,ie ishnds. 

How things high and [)crpendiciilar have an 
awesome and rhythmical eflfect upon us. I cannot 
stand below a cohort of high old pines without 
being reminded of organ pipes and music. And 
now I seemed to move, caught in the shadow of 



this mighty rock, under a solemn spell. TI e 
world outside the shadow glanced and glittered, 
but I was in some majestic funeral procession 
where there should have been tragic music mea- 
sured forth. 

Awhile I lingered in the black waters, touch- 
ing sometimes the lovely lichens on the stu- 
pendous rock. Then I escaped nto the sun- 
light, for the precipitous side of the island at 
last lowered to a point. There I turned the 
corner and found on the other side a shallow 
cove of yellow sand shaded by alders, where the 
filtering stm dropped spots of gold upon the 
brown v/aters. 

My boat slid softly ashore, and I ran up a 
vague little path and found myself on a rock 
where two or three pines sprang from the cre- 
vices ; their sombre hue struck the pale radiance 
of the morning sky with one of nature's most 
felicitous notes. In their scant, gently moving 
shadows I paused. The rock beneath my feet 
was scattered with tiicir faded needles. There 
I breathed the faintly aromatic air and entrapped 
in i"v soul forever the spirit of the fresh and 
soli d , morning. 

I uegan the ascent of the rocky island, and as 



I nearcd the summit the Iiuge boulder was 
broken, and low aspens fluttered delicately from 
the moss-grown cracks. The pinkish masses of 
rock, reared against the blue, seemed Hke the 
stones of some giant cemetery. The black 
forms of sleeping earth beneath a midnight sky 
are not more awful than these sunlit solitudes. 

A bridge of white clouds had spanned the 
sky. The verdure on the water-girding hills 
ranged itself tree on tree, forest on forest, and 
I stood breathless with them. They seemed a 
multitude gathered there waiting to be roused 
for sorre tremendous ceremony, waiting for 
some shining being to awake thcni with a blare 
of trumpet from the vast white cloud above 





The Petunias 

A SULTRY (lay had come and pfone: 

Wc thirsted for the rain, 
And rustling gently thro' the leaves 

At midnight down it came; 
And with its gentle rustling, 

Wafted throuj;h open pane. 
Was the sweet smell of petunias 

Washed in this midnight rain. 



Yestkrday the earth sent up rays of heat as 
if it were brass that reflected the sun. The sky 
was cloudless, but pale and misty with heat 
haze. The sun towards noon reddened, dimmed 
and shrank behind the mist; not a leaf in the 
forest stirred. The roads of reddish earth were 
blinding like hot copper. The teams that passed 
upon them were caked with dust and sweat. 
The river glittered, and burnt sore and pink the 
faces of those who ventured up it. 

The sun sank out of sight a light crimson; 
nor dews nor winds brought us relief at night- 
fall. We sat listening to the dry, late summer 
chirp of the crickets, and panted for breeze and 

At sunrise the next morning it was intenselv 
hot, though the blue was entirely concealed by 
banks of clouds. 

All morning we worked in the raspberry 
patch. How manv green berries there were to 



be swelled and made juicy by the rain when it 
should come. 

The heat was intense, and more suffocating 
than yesterday. Towards noon a rumble of 
thunder was heard, and all the berry pickers 
rejoiced. Presently we looked up to the tops of 
the elm forest skirtinff the berry patch; they 
stirred gently. Then their plumes swayed vio- 
lently in the wind, as if trying to break the fast 
lowering and blackened clouds. Then there was 
a gathering of skirts and berry cans, for im- 
mense drops splashed upon us. 

The smothering sweetness of the atmosphere 
was relieved by the freshness of the imminent 
contact between »'ie earth and the utomi. 

Soon we w.rf : lely housed and watching the 
quickly forming rivulets on the garden path. 



The End of Summer in the City 

TiiK people all scciii tired out, 
The clicstmit leaves arc dusty, 

The sun has sucked the sapful grass. 
And left it brown and rusty. 

The air hangs heavy on my chest. 
My springtime's hopes are dying, 

I long for <lamp October winds 
And gusts of wet leaves flying. 



Iajng shadows stretch from the copse at the 
side of the hayfield where I sit deep in the Ioiik 
grass. The field, tiiifrcd with a hght red, slopes 
upward to the rijfht, fringc.1 with low hushes 
against a bank of opalescent clouds. Before me. 
beyond a valley, is a strip of farm land with old 
prey wooden buildings, liehind the farm build- 
ings is a strip miles long of dark wowls, blue 
with distance and shadows of clouds. Rich and 
airy are the shadows whore I sit ; they cut the 
sunn> slopes deliciously, the grass silhouetting 
Its long round heads on the brightness bevond. 
The cloud pile mounts higher, with a thunderous 
aspect, and is marked like a citadel. The rough 
farm buildings prose of early risings, perspiring 
Jays, a going to bed betimes ; hard work, few 
pleasures, and long silences in the starlit hours. 
The forest background crosses the horizon with 
Its m; ,t<-,-,.,.. bar of seldom-trodden solitudes, 
purpling ui the cloud shadows and greening in 
the sun. 
This is my last . fternoon in these wilds. 


Hencefortli tliey will spread themselves in my 
imagination in a more beautiful loneliness be- 
cause of my desertion. My little house, wherein 
of late I was driven so early in the evenings by 
frosts and long nights, will haunt me reproach- 
fully as I think of it standing so humbly among 
handsome forest giants, blinded with shutters, 
left without voice to cheer it ; left with the rustle 
of dying leaf, with perhaps a cricket chirping in 
its wooden walls. Earlier and earlier will the 
road be lost in the blackening trees and the stars 
peep in a frosty sky. The darkness will be the 
more eerie now that the land is left to the few 
settlers, and those who play at country life have 
scattered to their cfties. 

In town again, how bleached the grass is in 
the park, how rusty the trees; one fancies the 
little groups of people seem faded, too. The old 
chestnuts about the streets cast their dappled 
shades on dusty pavements and stale boulevards. 
But under those shades I meet continually 
friends not seen for months ; the air is charged 
with the emotions of picking up of human 
threads. The browsing pastoral season is over 
and the life of the city, always faintly or greatly 
dramatic, has begun. 


Now wc have days of stinging heat, or we 
shiver in turbulent rains. A busy spirit drives 
us here and there to prepare our indoors for a 
snug winter. Then flying summer with a back- 
ward hiring glance calks to us again. A mildly 
glorious day draws us from town to the lake. 
Under the light shade of silver birches I face 
the blues of water and sky. whose meeting is 
dim in a mist of heat. There I marvel at the 
flight of summer, short as a breath, and at my 
many plans for it unaccomplished. Towards 
evening the equinox flutters a mighty wing and 
wafts us homeward. 

On the home stretch the gas lamps are already 
twinkling. The neighbors' houses are darkening 
into silhouettes against the twilight sky. There 
is a crisp frostiness in the air, and with a thrill 
we realize the reviving change of season; that 
the light and open life of the long days of sum- 
mer are over, that home and fireside are to grad- 
ually enfold us more and more in the months to 

By seven o'clock the lights at home are lit 
and various small suns illumine the indoor world. 
In the hall, looming up here and there from the 
shadows on the wall, are some old prints of 



scenes abroad in cottage and castle which recall 
the days when lives were lived almost without 
travel and when home was a world in itself. 

On the dining-tablc a little constellation rides, 
making the faces like a set of rosy flowers, leav- 
ing the walls in the same old rich shadows of 
last year, with the old familiar objects picked 
out delicately by the candle-light. 

My sitting-room is as full of lights and shades 
as a garden-plot with trees. There is the table 
with my reading-lamp, laden with volumes: yel- 
low-backed foreign novels, sombre history books, 
richly bound books to be only tasted and laid 
down, a fluttering brood of magazines all shim- 
mering with light amongst the surrounding mys- 
terious shades. There is the green-shaded lamp 
that reigns over my writing-table, which is as 
cheerful and inviting as a bed of white flowers 
ready to be gathered into a bouquet and de- 
spatched to a waiting friend. There is my fire, 
frolicking like a will-o'-thc-vvisp in the shining 
mahogany of the old sofa and armchair, inviting 
nic within its magic circle and dream-compelling 




In perfume of the dying leaves. 

In smoke of autumn fires, 
In trees decayed to purple hue, 
'Gainst dappled skies of waning blue. 

Strong summer now expires. 
These odours mild, these fading skies. 

Succeeding summer's fires. 
As reminiscent seem to mc 

As thoughts of past desires. 



We gaze on a world held moveless in an amber 
haze. Not a leaf flutters save to fall in its 
decay. The trees are stirless, like the seaweeds 
weighted by waters in an aquarium. The pale 
sky is streaked with light mares' tails. The 
beech and maple leaves lie curled and golden in 
the path. The odor of damp decay from these 
fallen treasure bewitches. A painful but de- 
licious longing seizes us ; a faint despair because 
we cannot grasp for our own the siirrounding 
elusive beauty. 

A white butterfly flits through the enchanted 
silence among tlie tangled fields where still lurk 
the mauve and purple Michaelmas daisies — last 
flowers of the year, austere and scentless. 

Tlic mares' tails throw their fleece across the 
sky, the crimson maple flaunts in the heights, 
and, epicurean lover of nature, note the frosty 
blue shades that cut the mellow light on the rest- 
ing hills and fields. 



The crisp leaf falls. The hills hold immov- 
able their lapful of gold under the meek eye of 
heaven. And now is given for an hour, to all 
who will lie on the sw^et faded carpet of earth 
and receive it, a blissful anodyne, October peace. 

On the hillside in the late afternoon we look 
dreamily on the valley and the sun-bathed slope 
beyond. The glory enters into us like golden 
wine, and we embark on a sea of reminiscence. 
The foolhardy episode of the past seems to-day 
to have been a glorious feat. The wild escap- 
ades of old comrades seem full of prowess or 
graceful humor. All that we have suffered, all 
that we have endured, seems not lost, but fit to 
be counted up as gain beyond the flesh-pots of 
the present. 

When the sun has sunk the air quickly chills, 
and >e make our way home in the rich dusk, 
blue ith the smoke of bonfir-s, redolent of 
damp leaves, heavy with cold, sweet dew — an 
eerie, fairy dusk, peopled with spectres of the 
past called up by our recent converse, and dog- 
ging our way homeward. 

In the evening the wind rises, the same old 
wind that each fall blows slates from the roofs, 
rattles doors and shatters old gates. Not keen, 



but velvety, it gains a wonderful swiftness, s<'t- 
ting the pace for young spirits. Boys and girls 
in their teens stealthily desert the fireside to join 
in its frolic. 

Outside in the light of the lamp are seen slen- 
der figures downy or bright of cheek. The 
signs swing in the gale, the gates slam, and the 
dead leaves rattle delicately. Off in the dark- 
ness can be seen shadowy forms waving lighted 
gourds with terrible faces. The group under 
the lamp shriek with excitement. Another gust, 
and off scuttle the children, almost as lightly as 
the leaves, into the darkness to join the band 
with the spectral gourds. 




To-day N'ovembcr is so clear. 

I scarce regret October ; 
I scarce regret her gorgeous leaves 

111 ilays so sweetly sober. 

The trees stretch up austerely grey. 
Stripped of their beauty tarnished ; 

Froin lawns the flowers are taken away, 
The green lies all ungarnishcd. 



Ori;i:n iKianl fences and \vc'athcrstaint<l, uti- 
painted fences divide the small garden squares. 
Faded and rain-sodden is the ffrass ; the flower- 
l)eds heaped with dead leaves; the sapless vine 
Iwifjs crawl like immense spiders; the naked 
trees stand dark against a dismal sky. A few 
faint markings remain of the first light snowfall. 
Beyond the fields, through a straggling copse, is 
a glimpse of a valley where sits a tall-chimneyed 
factory. A dismal, unkempt scene it is, the 
fringe of a large new town in a new country. 

It is Sunday, and November, windless, smoky 
and depressing. The echoes of church-bells of 
years past arc in my brain, with the remem- 
brance of sad church-goings and sadder after- 
noon sojourns at home with the surroundings 
of Sunday literature and Sunday quiet, and the 
depression of a too inactive day. I have mem- 
ories of an old-fashioned tea-table, with staid 
guests who were afterwards to attend the even- 



ing service. Then twiliglit and church-bells 
again. The tramp of people passing to the 
church. The dismal slackening of the bells, 
their ceasing, and the eerie approach of a Sab- 
bath nightfall. Ah, then I was a prey ,.3 black 
thoughts, prickings of conscitnce and fears of 
eternal damnation. Now, i; -ukM qualms of con- 
science have passed away, but the old Sabbath 
feelings make a faint return at Sabbath sights. 

Below my window stroll citizens from the 
crowded treets lower in the town. Fathers, 
mothe"', and their little families stiffly and 
f'" hly dressed In clothes very typical of the 
nidy-made counter of the departmental store. 
Dully enough they seem to make their way, but 
I venture to wager they are affected by no 
Sunday low spirits. They are enjoying, most 
likely, every moment of their Sunday at large. 
They are enjoying, probably, the acquisition of 
some new Sunday attire, or looking forward to 
the near purchase of something for their house. 
perhaps a new baseburner. Youths and girls 
I see also in crisp Sunday dress, the girls 
dressed with the obvious care that a oncc-a-week 
decorating suggests. They look commonplace, 
and it seems a sordid amusement to saunter 



along the board-walks in a suburb immersed in 
all the dreariness of a typical November Sun- 

These promcnadcrs will iu.n tlicir steps anon 
and wander to their homes in little crowded 
streets and enjoy their tea in |>cacc and quiet. 
Sunday to thcni is their day of rest and liberty. 
November to them is November, nothing more. 
To me remains the dreary poetry of this grey 
ilay of rest with its distant echoes of doomful 
threats once so vivid to my childish imagination. 
For me the day is still heavy with souvenirs of 
u childish ennui. 



The earth bears snowpilcs wearily, 

The wind is sighing drearily, 

And shakes the windows eerily, 

And moans to me as here I lie. 

My armchair laps me roimd about. 

The firelight leaps in merry rout. 

But nought can chain my piteous thought 

Till it has wandered forth and sought — 

A lonely person, miles away, 
Who made me happy as the day 
Is long, who made this fireside gay, 
Which now its cheer must waste away. 
The snow weights on him drearily, 
Imprisoned he so wearily ; 
The wind sighs to him eerily 
Who once lived with me cheerily. 



The scene has changed. Yesterday the earth 
was bare, the trees were dark and naked, deso- 
late and austere; then the snow fell for twelve 

There is nothing that recalls to me so vividly 
days of the past as this sudden white aspect of 
nature, when the snow has outlined the branches 
of the old oak and thatched the grey roofs. The 
sudden whiteness startling one's morning vision 
brings back extraordinarily the glowing desire 
in one's child's heart of long ago to rush out 
and spend the livelong day using the snow for 
plaything and pastime. 

In its snowy drapery the world from my win- 
dow is just as it looked when I had no care 
beyond the hour. Just as it will look on days 
to come when I shall watch it from my armchair, 
feeble of limb and slow of mind. Just as it will 
look when my fire is burnt out, when I am done, 
and asleep beneath its clean, soft flakes, sent 
ever anew from some fairy heaven. 

In the humble streets the roofs are piled with 
snow, the doorsteps laden, the shutters and 

e 69 


ledges finely emphasized, the tiny garden plots 
and bushes half buried. I never see that pure 
winter canopy over a little red-brick house, the 
snow heaped against the door and the lovely 
icicle dropping from roof and sill, but my in- 
terest is doubled in the nest of human beings 
gathered there, and the concentration of human 
interest within the four little wall;' while the 
winter has its way outdoors. 

On the hills the <now has laid its white sheet, 
and from the crevices desolately peep bare bushes 
that have shed their snowflakes. A fragment 
of fence marks the edge of the road that winds 
up the hillside. The dark, ungathered Christ- 
mas-trees peep cosily from their smothering 

Where the old pines have been left to stand 
is a dim and hallowed spot. Like cntliedral 
pillars they spring darkly from their shadowed 
floor. An imaginative child might seek beneath 
them for a shrine. The distant trees blend 
smokily wi^h the storm-laden sky. Absolute 
stillness reigns. The low cloud closes in upon 
me and my hills. The air becomes full of move- 
ment. In delicious and eloquent silence the 
fairy. crystals march from heaven to earth. 




The budding branches catch the sun 
That sheds light mild and yellow, 

They bathe in air devoid of frost 
That laps them damp and mellow. 


Spring Morning 

The sky to-day looks most immense, 

It is so high and blue; 
The chestnut greens are most intense, 

With the sun shining through. 
The myriad twinkling tender leaves 

That clothe the once bare trees. 
The million million tiny sheaves 

That grass the once bare leas, 
Remind me of a glassy ocean 
By a zephyr set in rippling motion. 
Or of an air oppressed with silence 
That sudden breaks with music's violence. 


Whbn lilac blossoms burst the green, 

In harmony bizarre, 
When dandelions dot grassy sheen 

Like little suns that are 
Irradiate in a verdant sky 

In lieu of one azure. 
Content sets smiles upon my face, 

And joy its emblazure. 


The Shelter 

The rain falls down. 
My roof to crown 

With rolling diamonds. 
Which fall on me 
From the scented tree 

When the wind shakes its fronds. 

The Ephemeral 

When the sun looketh into 
The land of my day, 
I am borne in his yellow light. 
Through silver-aired morning, 
Gold afternoon's heat, 
I flit till the purple night. 
Then the dews wet my wings. 
And embalm me to death. 

And Hesper's my funeral light. 


The Upland Park 

I SAW the upland park before me roll 
In t'lousand thousand grassy, flowery ridges. 

I saw the billowy lengths in heaven stroll, 
Spanning the blue with hundred hundred 

Each clump of grass, each line of flowers gay. 
Each clustering clover patch that dots the 

Is searched and sweetened by a sun's pure ray, 
And washed and cleansed by purifying rain. 

Sometimes a zephyr gentle, soft and kind. 

Moves in the ridges' yielding feathery crests : 
Sometimes wheels thro' a wild and rapid wind. 

This precinct never in stagnation rests. 



A BLUK for a bird to soar in, 
A height for the soul to glory in, 
And to break its fall to earth again 
The elms extend their arms between. 


The sun has sunk and left the world 
A dusky green above impearled, 
Whose sweetness now draws many a lover 
To walk beneath its jewel cover. 
Now curious star and envious planet 
Pierce the pure pearl anew each minute, 
Till, pricked by jealous star and starkin, 
The pearl begins to pale and darken. 
To walk seems groping after sweetness. 
Until the moon with stately fleetness 
Blots the heavens' sapphire face. 
Outstrips the stars that try to race. 
Holds the night in worship breathless, 
Drives lovers thinking love is deathless. 


Summer Night 

O CLiMMESiNC ground. 
And shadowy trees, 
Lucent, one star-lit sky, 

By the unseen choir, 
Night's swishing breeze, 
Thou'rt spoken in melody; 

And dew-drenched sweets, 
That no one sees, 
Breathe thy soul's perfumery. 


Dusk in the Village 

The night-hawk draws his twang across 

The dusky paling sky. 
The poplars and the elm trees rear 

Their blackening plumes on high. 
Beneath their shades the village folk 

Stroll, and the children pry 
In the fearful gloom to see if ghosts 

In those shadows hang anigh. 
And mumbling voice and stifled laugh 

Answer love-making sly. 

Now range the towering, black-plumed pines 

Against a solemn sky, 
Where watch the glittering ranks of stars 

The awful pageantry. 



The Leaves 

In this elfin spot, so populous with leaves, 
Each leaf meseems a fairy green that cleaves, 
Until a giant autumn wind doth come 
To snatch it on his wings away from home. 

Where the orange lilies shake 

Across the grassy mounds. 
On the hill above the lake, 

There my spirit, out of bounds, 
Shall flash into the ether. 

Or skim the liquid blue. 
Free of the clay beneath her 

That wakes nor sun nor dew. 

There is no perfume that I better love 
Than that a country road exhales in summer 
When dews descend and evening pales the grass. 


Summer Afternoon 

The little haw trees in the sun 

Are withered dry and brown ; 
Thro' their mazes sleepy, browsing sheep 

Are sauntering on the down. 

In the blue above my drowsy eyes 

The little white clouds swam, 
Like sails upon an azure lake 

When summer airs becalm. 

Long, long the clouds above me hung. 

In blessed holiday, 
In the gait of the ambling, browsing sheep. 

Mesmeric soothing lay. 

The dignity of nature's rest 

Was turned to essence tine, 
That swam in my surrendered veins. 

Nirvanic anodyne. 



The Thunderstorm 

A HEAVY and oppressive air 
The whistles pierced clear. 

Once goldly distant in the sun, 
The gloomy hills loomed near. 

The crickets and the grasshoppers 
Sang loud their song of drought, 

.\nd in the aspens and the ferns 
There stirred no breezy rout. 

The flowers and the arid earth 

Exhaled a dusty scent 
Into the sultry, heavy air 

Till the clouds should be rent. 

But thunder rattling wheeled at last 

Above the lowering roof. 
Until the clouds no lon3;er could 

Refreshment hold aloof, 

But filled each tree's beseeching arms, 
Each flower's greedy face, 

Down tender stems and grizzly trunks 
Poured out in rainy race. 



The Drought 

The maples in the garden. 

And the wild cherry tree. 
The scented, hot petunia, 

The gauzy, bright poppy. 
The pines that raise their purple 

From beds of bracken fern. 
The berry in the distant swamp. 

All longingly discern 
The storm^loud and the thunder. 

And. perishing with heat. 
Their prayerful incense oflfer up. 

The clouds to break entreat. 


Past Summers 

Oh, what a summer I have often seen 
In radiant fields of tangled raspberries. 

The berries hanging crimson in the green 
Enticing as the fruit that made irian wise. 

There larkspur wild and ripening goldenrod 
Climb o'er the lichened stones and grey snake 
And pigeon berries in the bleaching sod 

From their green fans blaze forth vermilion 

There up the slopes the coloring boulders gleam. 
Forcing their way the varied mosses thro', 

The pine trees climb the cliflfs the stones between. 
And mount to wave their black against the 

There on the lake the sunlight dazzling breaks. 
The waters hold the sl<y in brilliant show, 

Or in the shaded shallows where they take 
Their clear brown color from the stones below. 
7 85 


Abovf this lake I've sometimes watched the 


Stretch in stupendous bridges mile on mile. 

Till for the hot sk.v they have made their 


And broken in the storms' midsummer vial. 

From Sol I've refuged in a towering wood, 
Mid fungus bright and thickset lordly fern, 

If those giant pines intrude on Heaven should, 
The treading angels for their shade might 

And then I've groped thro' bracken and thro' 

Or faltered on a faintly glimmering road. 
Amongst al' things that sweetest are in dews 

I've roamed till Heaven's lights are all abroad. 



The gay pomp of this August solitude 

Where bold, intensely blue, the summer sky 
Backs trees' and ferns' luxuriant magnitude. 

Transparencies the sun illumined by, 
Makes me believe that from the woods beyond 
Will dash a nymph by ravenous satyr chased, 
Or some Diana and her girls ablond 

In sunshine, white-skinned, unashamed, un- 



Thk sun has soothed the take to sl«ev 

With hv ' mesmeric rays, 
Round the white boat the waK-r's glass 

Breaks up in lapping lavs. 

The hills bask warmly, fold on fold, 

In utter hazy peace : 
The moveless woods on the nearer ones 

Stand like a green, thick fleece. 

The roads lie coppery, mile on mile. 

Like serpents satiate; 
To look on them to sleep doth wile. 

So their heat doth radiate. 

The sleeping house on the sun-baked lawn 
Seems burned till none's alive. 

And the clacking fowl about the yard 
Seem all that do survive. 


A Summer Siesta 

Ong summer day, in siesta time, I lay upon my 

But I did not see the bare white walls nor the 

blankness overhead; 
From my book of staid philosophy my spirit 

rushed outdoors, 
And before my drowsy fancy lay spread the 

grassy floors 
Of August fields all bleached and tanned and 

heated in high sun, 
Where the Singer leaped from blade to blade 

with wing snaps in his run. 
I saw a road stretched white with dust thro' 

heated farm and wild. 
Until it entered where a wood and shady wel- 
come smiled 
Invitingly. This wood's green leaves could rest 

the eyes' glare. 
And cool the skin of dusty souls that chanced to 

linger there. 



Beneath my blind I peeped and saw lengthening 
upon the lawn 

The shadow* of some little pines ; methought I 
must be gone 

To a lovely bathing place I knew, where the 
alder bushes' shade 

Made the water brown, and the peering sun 
rendered it golden-rayed. 

Thereto I ran, therein I leapt, and summer lux- 
ury deep 

I tasted there as I felt cool floods like silken 
draperies creep. 


Looking Forward 

The chipmunk's in the hard bushes climbing, 
Gathering mits for his winter hcuise ,: lining, 
And I'm in August fields, the sky and woods 

Hoarding them up for snowbound winter 

The sky a lingering ilaylifiht hold- 

At this belated hour. 
The pines strike there in lacy black 

Their mina t and bower; 
The stream the frosty, gem-lik • stars 

Repeats like rockets' sliowc 

A cow is crashing through the hazel trees, 
Her bell is clanking at her stumbling knees. 
Now vanishing, now glimmering white and shy. 
The dewy road runs to the fading sky. 
The evening star pricks through the vast pak- 

And beaming revels in its lonely lease. 




_^ /1PPLIED INA^GE 1. 

-^. ie;>3 East Main Street 

^S Rochester, New rork 14609 US* 

r.^S (716) *B2 - 0300 - Phone 

^S (716) 288- 59S9 - Fa- 

A Garden 

I WALKED, shut in from London town, 

Through paths all coolly watered : 
In shady ends of vista's green, 

Stood beasts ne'er chased nor slaughtered. 
And goddesses of mouldy grey. 

With jars forever lifted, 
And little sturdy boys of bronze, 

Whose shoes a fountain sifted. 
The prim geraniums sat in beds 

As fashion then directed. 
The boundaries and hedge of box 

Conventional minds reflected. 



A .MILLION leaves around me lay, 
A rustling, mottled carpet; 

The naked trees against the grey 
Their serried twigs now marked. 

.\ lurid sun made soft the air, 
That too soon would be frosty. 

This last of Autumn was so fair, 
Too soon it would be lost me. 


Meeting Out of Doors 

This afternoon this field was green 
Beneath a mild autumnal sun, 
The copse of maples at its edge 
With red and yellow glories shone, 
And men and maidens strayed around, 
And tore the autumn glories down. 
To-night the moon shines silvery cool 
On a deserted, silent field. 
The copse of maples at its edge 
In stillness stands and shadow dense. 

I steal across the silent field,- - 
To-night it all belongs to me, 
And not a soul there is in sight, 
But no— a rustle 'neath the trees, 
A shadowy form I see is there. 
A step, and in the shadow dense 
I find my loved one waiting there. 
A whispered word, and then we sit 
Upon the fragrant dying leaves. 


Our words seem spoken long ago, 
The moonlight his eyes aglow; 
A moment on my dusky hair 
And rounded cheek they rest, 
And then his arms round me he throws. 
There is no rustle of the leaves. 
There is no wind among the trees. 
No bird-notes pierce the silent air: 
I know Lis bosom to mine cleaves, 
I feel his heart's wild beating there. 

I THRUST my head one freezing night into the 

outer air. 
With upward look I turned it then, .•m<l I saw 

blazing there 
A bunch of stars as thick as bees, 
Like sliowers that to diamonds freeze, 
Suspe ! in the air. 



Altho' I came full young here, 

Still there are vounger far. 
Nor do I mind I :rowd here, 

Silent as they arc. 

There's much that's left behind here, 
But think of what one gets ; 

'Tis bright, 'tis cloudy peace here, 
A balm and no regrets. 

Christmas Music 

The earth wears a white and glittering dress. 

Beneath the Christmas sun. 
The evergreens spread their finger'; out. 

White festive gloves to don; 
The Christmas bell cries " Ding-dong-dell !" 

And the boys " Merry Christmas !" shout.